Operation: Redbeard
by phantomessangel
Summary: "By the way, Sherlock, do you recall Redbeard?" What if... What if things were reversed and John took the fall in order to protect Sherlock?
1. Prologue

Operation: Redbeard

Prologue:

"Don't do this."

"I have to Sherlock. You know that."

There was something in the way he spoke, the soft lilt of his voice that set the consulting detective on edge, an air of resignation if you will. But, in the haze and heat of the moment, though, he couldn't quite place the significance of this deduction.

"There has to be—we can figure out another way, just give me some time to think. I can't—"

The words weren't coming out right. They felt hollow and rough against his lips.

Sherlock Holmes was truly at a loss for words. His mind a scattered mass of thoughts which, flitting angrily by, never gave the detective a clear portrait of an idea that could see him through this wretched mess.

It infuriated him.

Didn't it?

Isn't that what he felt? Fury? Anger?

He didn't like being stumped. He didn't like not knowing, not understanding.

The cool breeze against his cheeks played against the slick of sweat that creased his brow and seeped into his curls.

But the wild beating of his heart against the chest, the way his breathing came out rapidly, in short bursts, never quite filling his lungs and the all too familiar sensation of hyper-awareness—of his surroundings, the noises of the passers-by, and the soft breathing at the other end of the line signaled that it wasn't quite fury that he felt.

It was something else, something deeper, more painful, and wholly unfamiliar to him.

What was it?

His mind scrambled for answers, analyzing every possible way in which his body's responses to the situation might hint at what he was experiencing.

His pulse was quick.

This was wrong. All of this was wrong.

He felt something sour on his tongue, burning his throat.

"I can't…you just have to give me…" he wasn't sure what he was going to say. Logic screamed at him to recognize the reality of the situation.

He refused.

"I just need a minute to sort through this. We can—there's another way."

'Liar' his mind supplied easily

"There is no other way Sherlock. I'm sorry."

The finality in his voice, the soft sigh as the last words crossed the line between cell phones sent the detective's heartrate into a frenzy. A sense of foreboding filled his senses, and the inevitable realization that he couldn't change the situation weighed on his shoulders.

He had to try though. He had to do…something.

'Not possible.' His mind retorted.

Time seemed to slow down as he gazed upwards, looking towards the rooftop. The burgeoning sounds of the city-street blared in his ears, blending into an indistinguishable mish-mash of overbearing noise that threatened to drown out all semblance of thought.

A lump formed in his throat.

The world around him ceased movement.

The phone slipped from his hands as he tried desperately to move.

There was the frantic bleating of a car horn, the angry shouts of pedestrians as he barreled through the throng of people as he kept his gaze fixed firmly upwards.

He watched, as the figure, clad in his all too familiar dark jacket, with arms outstretched, stepped forward.

Off the roof.

Sherlock's stomach dropped, while his mind finally registered the sensation he'd been feeling:

Panic

"John!"


	2. The Little Things

**"It has long been an axiom of mine that the little things are infinitely the most important"- _The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes_**

 **Chapter 1:**

John Watson used to think he was a good judge of character.

At least, he thought he could tell the eccentrics from the straight-laced and rational individuals.

Usually, there was a connection between someone's ability to deduce and use logic and their demeanor and actions. The more crazy one was, the more erratic their suggestions, the more unhinged their logic appeared.

Most time this worked.

Especially with Harry.

John could always tell when Harry had been on a bender. Her words were slurred, her footsteps unsteady, but more importantly, her mental faculties were rather, glaringly, erratic and haphazard at best. He recalled one time she'd tried to set off to do the shopping during a rather nasty rainstorm in nothing but her summer wear.

The worst of it though came in the aftermath of her drunken stupors. The anger, the bitterness, the freefalling insults that percolated Harry's speech were enough to set John Watson up with realization that his sister was not well, that she'd been tainted by the bottle she seemed incapable of forsaking.

No, she'd rather fling dishes and wrappers at John whenever he—or Clara—tried to intervene.

'I don't have a problem' she'd say

'You made me do this' she'd argue

'You just expect me to be perfect all the time. I can take care of myself. I don't need you hovering over me.'

'You're the one with a problem, not me. It's not like I'm doing anything illegal. Get off your moral high horse. Stop painting me the bad guy. You think you're so damn perfect!'

Eventually, John learned to keep quiet.

And keep his distance.

Which was why he'd been in London that fateful morning after his rehab from the army.

Which was how he'd run into Stamford who invited him to tour St. Bart's one last time. Nostalgia and all that.

Which was how he met Sherlock Holmes, who—with alarming acuity and so pompous an air—deduced John's prior stint in Afghanistan and his injury and psychosomatic limp.

He should have been put off by the blatant disregard for societal constructs and the man's affinity for deliberately trying to offend and alienate himself from the rest of humanity.

But the man was bloody brilliant really and John—despite his annoyance at being reduced to a simple deduction—found himself interested in what Sherlock Holmes had to say. There was almost a manic sort of air about the 'consulting detective' and John felt a spark of excitement course through his veins—something he hadn't experienced since…well since the war really.

Which was how he found himself embroiled in a rather interesting—and somewhat alarming—pursuit of a serial killer.

Warnings should have echoed in his mind as he surveyed Sherlock's eerily giddy attentiveness to deducing the crime scene where Jennifer Wilson lay dead, finger nails chipped and the name 'Rachel' was etched into the grain of wood.

He should have decided his aspiration to find a flat in London was absurd and that he should run, rather quickly, from anyone named 'Holmes' when calls started following him on his trek back to Baker Street and a man with an umbrella and a rather smarmy grin upon his face suggested that he, John Watson, should consider spying on Sherlock Holmes.

And, he certainly should have taken the next train out of the city when Sherlock convinced him to text Jennifer Wilson's murderer.

And yet here he stood, on the other end of the police tape, watching Sherlock Holmes, wrapped in a shock blanket, discussing the case—the now closed case—with D.I. Lestrade.

He could still feel the tingle in his fingers where he knew the residue powder lay. His heart was pounding in a light, rhythmic pattern that felt both foreign and pleasing. He was hyper aware of his breathing, the brightness of the streetlamps and the low whirring of the car engines. The footfalls of officers seemed to echo as leather met concrete and the small sheen of sweat at the base of his neck felt cool and refreshing.

He could still hear the way the glass had cracked, as the bullet tore through the panes, sailed across the yard, and into the adjoining building, halting Sherlock's attempts to take what he suspected was a rather poisonous concoction.

He had watched the way the cabbie had been thrown back, the bullet from his gun tearing through fabric and flesh and muscles and arteries.

And now as he felt the small breeze graze his nose and cheeks, he caught Sherlock's piercing gaze. He noted the way the man narrowed his eyes carefully, blue orbs assessing John's movements.

Ah, more deductions…

The detective frowned, eyes sweeping over John's face, flicking towards his hands, head tilting ever so slightly as he laced his fingers together, furrowing his brow in a contemplative manner.

Sherlock Holmes was studying John Watson and for a moment, the ex-army doctor worried that he'd be turned over to Lestrade for questioning in the cabbie's death.

And then Sherlock smiled briefly.

And John Watson knew in that moment that his assumptions about people were utterly and completely useless when it came to Sherlock Holmes—a man of brilliance and exceptional reasoning skills, but one who was—probably—quite mad.

John Watson could not separate himself from Sherlock, could not pull himself out of this strange partnership.

Nor, did he want to.

There was something about Sherlock that beckoned John forward, towards the irrational and the haphazard pursuits through the darkened streets of London. A rhythm grew, a relationship formed and a sense of normalcy entered John's life, no matter how odd that normalcy seemed to the outside.

John Watson found a true friend and ally in Sherlock Holmes, absurdly brilliant and haphazardly obnoxious.

He found comfort in the man's eccentricities—his random outburst, distracted chatter as he poked and prodded various experiments, the long hours of haunted music that filled the small flat as Sherlock stood silent, deducing and analyzing cases.

It was almost idyllic for someone like John, who missed the action of war, missed using his training.

Missed feeling like he mattered.

Sherlock brought that out in him. And it made John question why he ever thought he understood how to tell people apart, to tell the good from the bad. Because in Sherlock, it was a different thing altogether. He appeared way beyond the normal scope of definition.

For eight months the cases came, the euphoria of being on the hunt for criminals filled John with a sense of purpose as he darted through roads and alleyways, in pursuit of criminals, following Sherlock's lead and trying to balance his admiration with his disdain for the eccentric and often abrasive detective. John couldn't deny that as brilliant as Sherlock Holmes was, he was also kind of an arse.

He had been more of a friend, though, than anyone John had ever met. He saw John Watson not as an army doctor or as an invalid or as a hindrance. No, Sherlock saw John in such a way that he felt as though he held some semblance of importance.

That he mattered much the same way he did in the Army.

He was needed.

Somewhat respected (at least by Sherlock's standards).

He was useful.

And then Jim Moriarty made a rather...unconventional appearance, strapping John into a vest of C-4, killing several others, setting London on edge.

All to get Sherlock's attention.

In Jim Moriarty, John caught a glimpse of what Sherlock could be if he were on the wrong side, if he dabbled too much, if he delved too deeply into his obsession with boredom.

The memory was still seared in his mind, into the dark recesses where all his unpleasant memories percolated. Though, try as he might, he couldn't shake the images and the way his stomach rolled at the thought of the sick game Moriarty was playing with Sherlock.

And how Sherlock seemed to delight in the challenge.

Lives, real human lives, were at stake here and Sherlock didn't seem to understand that this wasn't a game at all and that Moriarty was determined to destroy his flat mate.

But Sherlock was so confident in his abilities that he didn't consider what would go wrong or how he might be hurt in all of this.

Moriarty made it clear that Sherlock couldn't live.

But John Watson would be damned before he'd let that happen.

Neither would Mycroft, it seemed.

* * *

Sherlock eyed his new flat mate warily, a frown tugging at his lips as he watched the ex-army doctor languidly arch his fingers over the keyboard of his computer, clicking and clacking the keys in an infuriatingly slow manner.

He was updating his blog again.

Given the thoughtful expression on his face, the way John's lip curled inward gently tugged by the doctor's teeth, brows furrowed and eyes squinting at the screen, Sherlock could see the army doctor's mind whirring, thoughts formulating as he hesitantly and meticulously formed words, sentences, paragraphs, and stories.

Stories of their cases.

With hideous titles and sensationalized recounting of the harrowing deeds of the detective with his funny hat.

That damned hat.

All of this made Sherlock feel twinges of annoyance and he snorted derisively, narrowing his eyes at John Watson's form, noting the way the shorter man curved his back as he leaned towards the table, chin set upwards, nose twitching every now and then.

It was such tedious business, this blog, and he couldn't understand why John's therapist would ask him to keep such a record. Why did he need to recount their cases? Why did he need to talk about them further? What good did it do to dwell on those aspects of life which were so completely finished? John certainly couldn't go back and change the outcomes of the cases so what did it matter to talk of them? What would that accomplish?

Part of Sherlock wondered if it was John's simple way of acknowledging Sherlock's prowess and dominance as a forward-thinking critic of the world.

He was, after all, the only consulting detective and he was rather brilliant at it.

He suspected, however, that this blog, however, had something to do with John's romanticized distortions of reality and his desire to color the world with excitement and adventure.

Writers...

It all seemed rather boring to Sherlock and completely irrelevant.

But at the same time (and he was somewhat loathe to admit this) the tedium was something intrigued Sherlock, made him curious about his new companion and partner. John H. Watson was not a boring person really. Sure he had an absurd taste in jumpers—and a rather large collection of them too—and he preferred to watch the telly rather than participate in many of Sherlock's unique experiments.

And he certainly wasn't unique looking—or at least he didn't sport some strange abnormality that set him apart and created an aura of intrigue and mystery, even if it were a superficial one.

No, John Watson was a rather simple and normal individual.

Or at least he seemed that way to those who didn't really know him. And Sherlock was fortunate enough to know the real John Watson, the one who thirsted after adventure and danger, the one who missed the battlefield and wasn't afraid to use a gun or go chasing after serial killers in the middle of the night.

Not the mention the fact that he seemed to tolerate Sherlock's rather tumultuous attitudes.

But for all this, John still insisted on that insipid blog.

How utterly _boring_. Who needed that blog when the world was so exciting? Didn't these cases make him feel alive? What more could he want?

WHY a blog?

"You know I can hear you sighing from here."

John's voice, low as it was, carried across the room where Sherlock sat. The doctor turned to face the brooding detective and quirked a brow at Sherlock's hunched form on the couch.

"What's your problem?"

Sherlock frowned at the man before him.

"I don't have a problem" he retorted in a clipped tone, his mood soured by the repetitious and grating sounds of the keyboard clinking as John had constructed his posts. "You're the one who seems addicted to this digital storybook of yours. I hardly need such simplistic things. You, on the other hand, seem to thrive on the attention you receive. I merely wish that if you were to do this obnoxious activity that you keep your noise to a minimum. It's...distracting."

"Oh come off it, Sherlock," John snorted at his flat mate's remark, "You're about as subtle as the iceberg that struck the Titanic. You know this is how we get our cases. Why else would I do it? And it's not as if your blog is receiving many visitors."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and scowled but said nothing, only adjusted his robe as John turned back to his computer screen, the infuriating ghosting of a smirk on his lips.

"It's hardly useful to have a blog if you aren't getting any clients for us."

"Oh we've got clients, Sherlock but you've deemed them too 'simple' for your tastes. Hardly my fault that we aren't trekking after someone right now."

Again John smirked, completely at ease as his fingers languidly danced across the keys.

This would not do, Sherlock decided. If he was bored and unhappy, then John didn't deserve to smile like that. But, the army doctor seemed exceptionally unruffled today.

And that was annoying and boring.

It wasn't nearly as fun if John didn't react to Sherlock's commentary. What good would that do him?

Perhaps if he pushed...

He wondered how long it would take to irk John Watson. What could he say to increase his flat mate's agitation?

"Yes, well it seems that you're cause of our severe lack of quality clients of late then, yes? Your clearly inferior and uninformed writing attracts the truly imbecilic. Hardly worth the effort if that's the client pool we're expected to deal with."

The dark-haired detective launched from the couch and sauntered towards John, noting the tightness around the blonde man's eyes, and the pinched expression that briefly flashed against his features.

Good.

"Furthermore, if we're on the subject of clients, shall we discuss the utterly useless display of information you're putting out on the internet? You do recall our most recent stint with the royal family?"

John's eyes flashed dangerously.

"Sherlock—"

"Wasn't it thanks to your exploits that we're embroiled in this rather amicable relationship with Jim Moriarty?"

"Sherlock you need to stop."

John's voice was low, his eyes narrowed, two blue pools of liquid fire as he glared at Sherlock. But the detective had shifted his observations from seeing how far he could push John Watson before he cracked to sweeping over a very interesting thread of thought.

A plausible theory of why and how they'd attracted Jim Moriarty's attention.

And why John Watson had gotten into that mess the year prior.

"It does make sense," He concluded, stepping past John and heading towards the wall, quickly scanning the various articles tacked to the wallpaper. "If we connect the various dates of the cases and the allusions that the cabbie made and then..."

"Sherlock"

No that didn't make sense, did it? John wasn't writing his blog when the Cabbie came, but that was hardly significant. Just the first time they'd heard of Moriarty.

"We can notice an increase in the...volatile nature of the cases we've dealt with and the interweaving of a network since your blog's publication of the cases."

"Sherlock you need to stop."

"The pool was certainly a connection to your interference—"

"Sherlock!"

The bellow that erupted in the room forced Sherlock to silence the sudden whirring of ideas in his mind and he blinked a few times, casting a long look towards his flat mate, who stood, hand resting atop a closed laptop a furious glare on his face.

His eyes blaze and his free hand was tightened into a fist.

'Ah so that was the limit then.'

"How dare you blame me for your completely –"

"I was merely putting the pieces together John," Sherlock quipped with a frown, "You can't deny that there's a connection between your interference and Moriarty's increasing aggression."

"You arse. You think that I'm to blame for...for _him_?" John slammed his hand down on his computer and snarled lowly, "Did you ever think it had to do with your idiotic display of superiority? Or perhaps you think that your behavior doesn't cause people to stare of makes you the center of attention?"

"Oh I know that, I just don't care. But I didn't have as wide an audience until you put those bloody words on the net. Your posts made me a target."

"You—" John's eyes widened and he pinched the bridge of his nose before sucking in a large gulp of air and letting his eyes slip closed.

Sherlock saw an expression cross over the doctor's face, fleeting and unidentifiable, before it was replaced with a stony facade.

"You are impossible. For once, just for once, you should take responsibility for your actions Sherlock. We've court on Friday to deal with Moriarty. Hopefully for the last time." The man straightened and gave Sherlock a hard look, "You've egged him on, now it's time to put him away. Don't let Moriarty continue with this stupid game you both insist on playing. I'm not a part of it."

With a final huff, John tugged the laptop under his arm and sauntered towards the door, yanking his jacket from its peg as he exited.

"Don't bother waiting up for me, I'm not coming back tonight." He ground out lowly before stopping down the stairwell and out onto the street.

Sherlock watch John leave with a mixture of smug satisfaction and curiosity at the possibility that perhaps it really was John Watson who brought this Moriarty business to a head.

A smaller portion of him—perhaps bigger than he cared to admit—felt a small twinge of guilt for provoking John so. He genuinely felt a companionable relationship with the ex-army doctor and he found John Watson to be far less tiring than most other people he was forced to deal with.

Part of him, though, delighted finding fault with the simplistic and meaningless behavior the rest of the world seemed to delight in. He just wished John would realize that too.

"My goodness Sherlock, what did you do to the poor man?" Mrs. Hudson's chastising voice snapped Sherlock to attention as he watched the older woman shuffle carefully into the room, stepping over the piles of casefiles and various boxes, balancing a tray of tea and biscuits in her hands as she went. "John seemed right ready to throw his poor computer. I can only imagine what you did this time."

"Nothing of consequence really," Sherlock remarked lowly, briefly peering out the window, watching the hunched form of John Watson slowly retreating down the street. By the gait and force of his steps Sherlock knew John was angry. "Just explaining the uselessness of social endeavors and mass media. John didn't seem to take it well."

"That hardly seems like an accurate recounting of the story Sherlock."

* * *

The car was waiting when he rounded the corner. Letting out a low breath, John hastily grabbed the handle of the passenger door and handed his computer over to the waiting hands seated at the far end of the car's backseat.

He slid in slowly, mindful not to slam the door as he went and let out a long sigh, slowly uncurling his fingers from their tightly fisted positions.

"Rough day, doctor?"

John resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

"NO more than usual," he remarked slowly, careful about keeping his emotions in check. He knew that Mycroft Holmes could irk him just as much as Sherlock.

"Indeed," Mycroft snorted softly, an all-knowing smirk gracing his features as he carefully extracted the thumb drive from John's computer, crammed with the newspaper articles and other documents of Moriarty's whereabouts in recent weeks and the latest headlines revolving around his case against Sherlock and his impending court hearing on Friday. "But that doesn't negate the next question which is, does he suspect?"

John straightened, rubbing the back of his neck as he carefully shook his head. "I don't think he does. I made sure to play his stupid game, letting him egg me on you know. It's a bloody pain really."

"But a necessary evil, I assure you, the more time we can gain the better of we'll be on successfully completing the task at hand, doctor."

John nodded his head carefully and turned to peer out the window, marveling at the speed at which the buildings moved past the car. They were travelling over the bridge now, heading away from the city, and away from Sherlock.

Despite this, however, John couldn't stop the idea from playing over and over in his head. Had Sherlock been correct to assume that he was the cause of Moriarty's growing aggression? Had his blog really caused this?"

Guilt and worry gnawed at him, setting his stomach rolling and making his fingers tingle with agitation.

If that were the case...

"Doctor"

John jerked to attention and peered at Mycroft carefully. He noted the hard look in the man's eyes and the thin pucker of his lips as he scrutinized the ex-army doctor.

"Your mind has a terrible proclivity to wander," Mycroft chastised drily. "Do try to pay attention John Watson, more than your life is at stake here."

John scowled at Mycroft, feeling the familiar pangs of agitation rippling through him once more.

Yes, indeed, this was Sherlock's brother.

"Thank God you're above all of Sherlock's dramatics," he grumbled finally allowing himself the luxury of rolling his eyes.

"You aren't suited for childish antics, John Watson," Mycroft's tone dipped and his eyes narrowed, giving John the distinct indication that the stoic face of the British government was displeased with one John Watson, invalided army doctor. "Best nip that in the bud. Don't tell me I've selected the wrong person for the job."

"Let's get on with it Mycroft," John remarked, unimpressed by the thinly veiled threat. "We both know that there isn't time for petty behavior and you've got no one better for this."

Mycroft cleared his throat.

"Indeed."

He pulled out an envelope and tossed it into John's lap.

"You'll find in there three dates and several locations across the city. Our intel has managed to narrow down the prospective locations of where Moriarty will attempt to stage his 'final rendezvous'. The dates are respective of what happens on Friday. Should the courts side against him—"

"Unlikely," John muttered darkly, eyes scanning over the photographs of the various rooftops.

"Yes, well, should they side against him that gives us a larger window. However," Mycroft's voice, we know that the network he's operating with has access to private security and cable. It'd be too easy to infiltrate their rooms and attempt to...sway their position."

He caught John's eye as the car came to a slow halt. They'd arrived at the Diogenes club and Mycroft straightened his jacket, fastening his cuffs.

"Our best bet is to trust that Moriarty will walk away a free man. We need to be prepared for his attack on Sherlock and London. Those locations have pinged on our taps and the intel with the underground network has been most fruitful. I expect it won't take long to work out where the hitmen are and plan to remove the targets before they enter the danger zone."

Mycroft's face sobered lightly.

"I feel obligated to inform you that, despite your prowess with a gun, you will be facing some of the best marksmen in the world. Sebastian Moran in particular worries me."

John nodded slowly, scanning over the long list of names attached to the dossier of photographs. Moran's name was highlighted. Information on his included the man's schooling, his various awards as a sharpshooter and marksman for the military before his defection and subsequent alliance with Moriarty.

There was also a rather large body count.

John swallowed the thickness back from his mouth, forcing his nerves to calm.

He could do this. He'd been trained for this. He could handle this type of work.

The door slowly opened and sunlight streamed across John's face, making him squint.

"And what about Sherlock?" He queried softly, carefully assessing Mycroft's face, "How are we to...?"

"No doubt he's got some plan in the works," Mycroft dismissed things with a quick wave of the hand. I've no doubt he'll come to me for assistance. I have all the resources he'd need. It's a simple act of planning out his position like all the others. The difficult part comes in keeping this plan a secret from him."

That seemed too easy an answer for John's liking but he supposed that if Mycroft couldn't be bothered to ensure Sherlock's cooperation with their covert plans, then he would do it.

Mycroft caught John's eye briefly before stepping out of the car and straightening his jacket, "Sherlock is nothing if not persistently nosy and inquisitive. It's always been a struggle to keep a secret from him. I suppose we'll have to take care to ensure Sherlock's cooperation in all facets of this plan. He needs to be completely reliant on our guidance..."

He smiled at John as if indicating that he knew exactly what the doctor was thinking.

Buggar.

"If he catches word of our plans, he'll no doubt attempt to dissuade your involvement, Doctor Watson. Best put your acting skills into order or all of this will be for naught."

John snorted derisively.

That wasn't going to happen. While Sherlock did drive John absolutely mad, there was something about the man that he couldn't quite excuse or shake. He was drawn to it, drawn to the fire and the passion in Sherlock's personality.

"Your interactions with him must be calm and natural, you can't give anything away."

"That's easy enough when he's being such an arse," John muttered dourly, still feeling the pangs of guilt from Sherlock's accusations.

"Yes, well, until the time is right we've got to keep up appearances. He can't figure out what we're doing until it's too late to stop it."

John nodded.

They had to out-Sherlock Sherlock.

Brilliant. What could possibly go wrong?

"If you can take Moriarty out before he can get there, all the better."

Mycroft nodded to John briefly, a ghost of smile on his face.

"The bravery of the solider..." he mused lightly, "Far more eloquent than simply calling you rash or stupid I suppose."

The door quietly clicked closed and Mycroft gave a curt nod towards the car, and John, before turning on his heel and heading into the building. The drive returned to his post and informed the weary doctor that a room had been prepared for him at a rather ostentatiously lavish hotel downtown.

They set off for the heart of London and John closed his eyes, listening to the low hum of the engine and feeling the cool breath of the air conditioning as it washed over his face.

With dossier in hand John pondered the impending danger coming their way. He wondered if he reall was so rash and foolish as Mycroft asserted.

Though if that were the case, it would seem that Mycroft was just as rash and foolish as he.

At least when it came to protecting Sherlock.

The doctor quirked a small smile as he remembered their first meeting and the thinly veiled threat in Mycroft's voices as he provoked John, accusing him of being addicted to the thrill of the battlefield, using Sherlock as a way to get his own personal 'high' if you will. And then the man had attempted to hire him on as an informant on Sherlock's whereabouts and doings.

'Madman with an umbrella' He mused lightly.

Of course traversing through memories ultimately dredged up Mycroft's next meeting in café a few weeks after the Belgravia issue...and the Woman. The heart of the issue hadn't been her involvement or her case and...death.

Instead, both Mycroft and John were concerned with Moriarty's involvement and what it was doing to Sherlock.

And John, if he were being honest with himself.

The pool still haunted him most evenings and the thought of Sherlock at with those snipers trained on him...

And Moriarty's laugh...

John quickly shook his head to dispel the growing panic he was starting to feel and focused instead on the passing streetlamps and muted vehicles through the soundproof glass of the car.

'I have a proposition for you, Doctor Watson, if you care to hear it.'

Mycroft had sought him out, after Irene Adler, and planted a rather larger dossier into his lap. This dossier contained several different notations of Moriarty's movements and interactions with various political representatives, big name criminals, and several militant groups. There were dates, locations, and photographs in terrifying detail on Moriarty's workings and dealings.

Mycroft, it seemed, was not keen to sit idly by and allow Moriarty to roam freely. Not after the pool incident.

'You know he's coming for Sherlock. You know the casualties will be catastrophic. But, what if we could stop it from happening, doctor? What would you say to that?'

John immediately agreed. His training in the army helped prepare him to analyze the intel.

And now, here they were, planning to take down one of the largest crime networks in the world...and keep it all a secret from Sherlock.

At least for the time being.

But, John knew that he'd have to...that Sherlock was slated to 'fall' as Moriarty phrased it a few times. And John had to stop _that_ from happening.

But Sherlock...

No matter what, it wouldn't end well.

"Doctor Watson?"

The driver's low, even voice snapped John to attention and he straightened, noting that the man was standing at his side, holding the door open for him.

He cleared his throat a few times. "Yes. Yes, thank you."

As he planted his feet on the sidewalk and stared up at the imposing building, nodding once again in thanks to the driver, he couldn't help but feeling the pricking of anxiety.

He only had a few more days to prepare for the trial, to prepare for the beginning of the end.

And to prepare to say goodbye to Sherlock Holmes.

For, someone had to fall and John Watson would be damned if he let Sherlock do it.

He had to do it. He had to end this whole blasted game. He had to finish it.

He cleared his throat again.

"Right. Best foot forward then."


End file.
